


All We Are (Is Burning Stars)

by arabybizarre



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Dark Side Waverly, F/F, Force Bond (Star Wars), Jedi Nicole, Mentions of prior character death but all your faves survive, Star Wars AU, Wynonna and Doc are both scruffy looking nerf herders, the gang's all here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-04 03:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14011119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabybizarre/pseuds/arabybizarre
Summary: Nicole was certain she'd lost Waverly to the Dark side a year and a half ago. But when the Force dreams start and their bond persists, she begins to question the meaning of redemption.orSometimes love really does conquer all. Even when there are lightsabers involved.(Based loosely on The Last Jedi, but will pull inspiration from Rebels, Clone Wars, Dark Disciple, and various other New Canon EU content.)





	1. I - Nicole

**Author's Note:**

> This one's for HaughtBreaker and Jaybear1701 (with thanks to Jay for beta reading). I guess this is a few months later than expected, but I hope it's worth it!
> 
> And just a heads up, I do reference some EU Star Wars canon here (it just seemed so fitting when pulling WE into the SW universe). If you want to talk about it at all, just let me know : )

The Nightsisters say that The Sleeper represents one’s greatest fears.

Many argue over the appearance of the eldritch beast, whose hulking form slumbers beneath the deep waters of Dathomir. Some describe it as being a blinding white color, others a startling turquoise. Some tell tales of tusks and pincers and claws the length of one’s own arm.

Accounts vary from sister to sister, but there is one point upon which they all agree: the eyes.

Massive, lavender. Enticing. Eyes that whisper and seduce. Eyes that have struck such paralyzing fear into some sisters that they allowed themselves to sink into the Dathomiri depths, forever lost.

Nicole never took the plunge into the waters of the Nightsisters’ lair, never met The Sleeper face-to-face. The Jedi Order raided their clan, freeing them from Bulshar’s grasp, years before she would ever have the opportunity. 

But The Sleeper is still embedded deep in the mythos of her youth. She still dreams, some nights, of its long limbs and flickering antennae. Can feel the texture of its ridged carapace as it wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her under. Can see those keen, searching eyes.

Except, they are not always lavender. Sometimes, the eyes are a rich hazel. Sometimes, the arm that pulls her under is steady and slim.

Sometimes, she wakes in a cold sweat, the name of a girl long forgotten on her lips.  _ Waverly, _ she calls out into the quiet night, a breeze whispering through the slats of her hut.

Sometimes, she knows. The Sleeper now walks on land. And someday, they will meet again. 

* * *

Nicole is all too familiar with the dream by now. You’d think that after so many nights it would become rote. But the fear, the sick of it, still claws at her gut with each occurrence.

For the longest time, she tells herself to fight. Her training with Master Nedley has instilled in her a sense of stubborn resistance. When she feels the old, dark pull of Dathomiri magick—that black Force ichor running hot through the planet’s veins, and in part through her own—she anchors herself in the light and kicks. 

Until one night, she doesn’t. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion. Maybe even a sense of complacency. But when she sees the transformation begin, sees the owlish lavender eyes of The Sleeper darken and shift into a more familiar shade; when she feels that soft, wispy hand clutching coldly at her robes, she says,  _ “Tonight is it.” _

It’s not giving in exactly. The fear cools and liquidizes, pouring from her. She feels that same hold, and instead of kicking, she grabs onto it. Not harshly, even. She lays her hand over top the hand of The Sleeper, and allows the lost girl to pull her down, deep. 

Deeper than she’s ever gone before.

Nicole wakes soundlessly, springing up from her bed, the thin sheet pooling at her waist. The room is pitch black, her eyes bleary. She rubs at them as she takes in a deep breath and swivels her body.

When she plants her feet on the ground, she recoils. Instead of the usual warm, Rattataki soil of her hut, she feels cold metal beneath her. She looks around, suddenly more aware. The room is far darker than it ought to be.

Cautiously, she stands, gently pulling her saber from across the room, willing it into her waiting hand. She takes a step forward, hand flexing around the hilt, and the white, baseboard lights illuminate her path.

A corridor, all sterile, gray steel and gently lit panels, stretches out before her. A spike of something—the old fear—roils in Nicole’s gut. But she places both hands on the saber, holding on tightly, and tamps it down. Allows the light to flow through her again. She steps forward a few paces, the baseboard lights broadening, the world solidifying around her. No longer can she hear only the echoes of her own footsteps. 

Now, too, there’s a muffled voice. A whisper.

It’s too quiet to discern, but Nicole feels an instinctive pull, nonetheless. Her footsteps quicken, the voice growing closer, more fully formed.

She stops outside of an open doorway, her body going cold.

The chamber is cylindrical. Cold metal and barred panels of light, much like the corridor itself. Completely bare, save for the pedestal at the center, whereupon a cracked and half-melted helmet sits, familiar and deformed. And the slight woman knelt before it, her own helmet—similar, yet sleeker, newer—sitting on the floor beneath her palm.

Her voice is a quiet rasp, the pain in it clear. Nicole struggles to make out her hushed whispers. 

_ “... I will finish what you started.” _

Nicole sucks in a breath, and the woman startles, standing and turning swiftly on her heel. The tarnished, patchwork crossguard saber bobs gently from her belt. When she sees Nicole, she stiffens, eyes widening.

A shared alarm undulates gently between them. A wave in the Force.

“What are you doing here?” Waverly asks, her voice finally clearing. It’s been so long since Nicole has heard it without the cover of her helmet.

The hilt of her saber slips from her grasp, clattering loudly upon the floor.

* * *

“No!” Nicole wakes with a shout. This time when she bolts up from the bed, the saber flies into her hand, blade illuminating without hesitation. It hums gently, an agitated purr, the familiar slats and tiny baubles of her hut showing themselves in the deep cerulean glow. She turns about, breathing deeply as her toes flex into the dirt floor.

After several tense seconds, she lowers her saber, though keeps the blade lit. Needing a bit of air, she pushes back the hut’s curtain and steps out front. Wearing nothing but a thin under-tunic and a pair of fitted linen trews, the cool Rattatak air raises goosepimples over her flesh. Nicole looks out over her vista, out at the lush mountains that surround her on all sides; and beyond, a pitch night dotted with millions of pinpricked stars. She sighs heavily, retracting the blade from her saber.

The night is quiet, without the steady hum of her lightsaber. She can hear, in the distance, the chitter of insects and the far-off howl of a prowling beast.

And in the back of her mind, a mellifluous voice she’s been long pressed to forget. Vowing solemnly, almost pained, to complete the work of her forefathers.

“What are you doing here?” she mutters, to no one at all.

* * *

Nicole isn’t foolish enough to believe that a dream is ever a just a dream. Not where the Force is concerned.

So, she’s not surprised that she dreams of the dark apprentice a second time, a third time, and so on until even just her periods of solitary mediation are torn with voices that do not belong to her. 

It becomes concern enough that one morning, Nicole tosses on her thickest robe, packs a rucksack with rations, and begins the three-day hike from the mountains down into the village proper. Here, she finally pulls out her comms-link to make two calls:

First, is to secure transport to the castle at Takodana. 

Second, is to arrange a meeting between old friends.

* * *

It doesn’t matter how many times before Nicole has visited Maz Kanata’s castle. Each time, she is equally as flummoxed—not just by the size or the scope of smugglers, wayward Force-sensitives, and miscellaneous ne’er-do-wells that congregate here, but by the sheer energy of the place. The shouting, the peels or raucous laughter and clinking glasses, all coalesced with errant fisticuffs and occasional blaster fire.

For Nicole, it is a sheer source of anxiety.

And for Wynonna, it is a second home. 

Nicole peers around the room. She can  _ feel _ Wynonna nearby, connected as they are after all these years. However, with the crush of bodies, she’s having a hard time honing in on her. She stumbles aimlessly for a few moments before a short, burnt-orange figure steps authoritatively in her path. 

“Well, will you look what the Rancor dragged in.”

On one hand, she’s surprised. And on the other, she’s not. At all. “Hello, Maz.”

The old alien squints her brown eyes, magnified behind the moony bottles she calls glasses. She seems to size Nicole up, scrutinizing as always, before poking a rheumy finger into her belly and accusing, “You never come to visit me anymore, girl.”

Nicole smiles gently. “I wouldn’t take it personally. I don’t visit much of anybody these days.”

Maz frowns, standing back with hands on hips. She looks Nicole up and down and, when satisfied that she’s not lying, finally turns, waving her along. “Come, come. They’ve been waiting for you.”

Despite Maz’s far shorter legs, Nicole struggles to keep up as they wend their way through the crowd, dodging tables and swaying bodies and rich-looking liquors perilously changing hands. Eventually, Maz leads her to a small booth in the back, where Wynonna and Doc sit in a circle of particularly…  _ disgruntled  _ looking pirates. 

In spite of the cacophony around them, each wears their best sabacc face, staring quietly over a hand of closely-guarded cards with their gazes blank. As they approach, Wynonna lays out her hand, and just like that, the table erupts.

Maz turns to her. “You’ll keep her in line, won’t you?”

Nicole tips her head downward. “I’ll try,” she promises. “And I’ll likely fail.”

Maz gives her one last long-suffering smile, patting Nicole on the arm as she turns to attend to other matters. “That’s all I ask,” she chuckles. “If you need me, girl...”

“I’ll find you.” And just like that, the tiny woman disappears into the fray. 

Nicole takes a tentative step closer, hoping to make her presence known without much of a fuss. Unfortunately, Wynonna and Doc, each with a number of empty glasses strewn over the table in front of them, seem quite preoccupied with the four pirates ready to overturn their table.

“You’re a damn cheater!” one of the pirates shouts. 

Another leans over, smacking his hand on the tabletop, and growls in Doc’s direction, “Corellian bastard!”

Nicole hangs her head for but a second and sighs, striding forward assertively. “What seems to be the problem here, gentleman?”

Wynonna’s eyes light like Life Day lanterns when her gaze finally turns on Nicole. “Haughstuff!” she calls out, silenced by an immediate, venomous look from the other woman.

Nicole focuses on the disgruntled men who appear intent on strangling—or otherwise  _ shooting— _ her friends. She looks at them each in turn, calmly and patiently, exuding soothing waves through the Force. The man nearest her gapes, befuddled by the sudden wave of calm, and sneers. 

“Do you know these two?” His tone is already accusatory.

Nicole smiles gently, nodding. “I do.”

He pushes a bit further into her face. He’s a big man, missing at least four of his visible teeth, with two replaced by gold pieces. “Then you know that they’re filthy  _ swindler _ s then, don’t you?”

Nicole pauses, taking a step back. She steeples her hands unassumingly. “I know that these two are good,  _ honorable _ people. And that this is all one big misunderstanding.”

All four of the men blink at her, equal parts confusion and sudden placidity. The tension seemingly melts from their shoulders, one by one. “A misunderstanding,” the man nearest her repeats, nodding to himself. He turns to Wynonna and Doc, as if to say something more, but Nicole interjects again.

“You’ll buy us a round of drinks, for the trouble, and leave us be.”

The man looks down at their empty glasses, slowly. “A round of drinks,” he says. “Whiskey?”

Doc hooks his thumbs in his pockets, smiling smugly as he drawls, “ _ Corellian. _ ”

The man nods, the others already milling off towards the bar. “Corellian,” he repeats, tottering off himself. Nicole watches them go, a furrow appearing between her brows once they’ve wandered out of earshot.

“Good,  _ honorable _ people?” Wynonna asks with a snort. “Laying it on a bit thick. Don’t you think, Haught?”

“Only about half as thick as your skull.”

Wynonna smirks, stepping out from behind the table to get a good look at her old friend. “What, you crawled out of your hidey-hole just to chastise me?”

“Wouldn’t that be fun,” Nicole says. “Almost like old times.” She meant the comment with some levity, but it comes out unintentionally tired. Hollow. 

Wynonna notices, of course, but she has the good sense to leave it be. Instead, she pulls Nicole into a tight hug, one she holds onto longer than either of them expected. When she pulls back, there’s not even a trace of embarrassment on her face. Only carefully-guarded curiosity—a look that expects the worst.

Doc’s even less of a hugger than Wynonna, on a good day, and instead settles for a tip of his age-worn hat, mouth hitched into a fond, crooked smile.

They settle into the booth together, Wynonna and Doc on one side, his arm slung casually over the back of the seat, just above his co-pilot’s head, while Nicole sits stiffly across from them. Almost as soon as they’ve gotten comfortable, one of the servers brings over their promised round of drinks.

It’s been a long time since Nicole has had a taste of liquor. On Rattatak, she spends her days reading and training and meditating, with little time for leisure or even the thought of hedonistic pursuit in between. She’s not particularly thirsty, but she takes the glass anyway, swirling the amber liquid inside. 

“So, what’s up, Haught? You said something about needing a ride out of the system?”

“I do,” she says, sniffing the whiskey with distaste. Corellians are an interesting breed—smooth talkers, smooth shooters. Yet somehow their whiskey comes off with enough bite to burn the hide off a bantha. “Soon.” She takes a sip and grimaces. “Preferably immediately.”

“That’s interesting,” Wynonna notes, knowingly. “Because you had transport from Rattatak to Takodana, didn’t you?”

Nicole drums her fingers lightly on the table. Wynonna and Doc are both staring at her, but she keeps her gaze fixed on her drink. “I need discretion.” She looks up then, pointedly. “Where I’m going, no one can follow.”

Wynonna raises her eyebrows. “How ominous.”

Doc is the one who leans forward, lowering his voice. “I don’t suppose you’ve got yourself into any trouble, have you now?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Nicole says measuredly. “But sometimes, trouble just seems to find me. I can’t imagine how.” She smiles, but her hand is shaky. Meditation is a fine replacement for sleep, when one has the Force to draw their energy from. But she can’t help that off-kilter feeling settled in her gut.

Doc and Wynonna are watching her with more scrutiny than is necessarily comfortable. She schools her face and tells them. “I don’t believe I’m in any immediate danger.” 

Doc chuckles. “Oh, well in  _ that _ case…”

“But I need to pay a visit to Ahch-To.”

Wynonna squints, trying to place the name. “Ahch-To?”

It seems to click for Doc, however. “And what could you possibly need with some waterlogged island in the Unknown Reaches?”

Nicole stares at them both over the rim of her glass, taking a slower, deeper pull. After a moment, she sets the glass down on the table and admits, “I need to speak to Master Nedley.”

Wynonna is quiet for a few moments, sitting back further in the booth. After draining the remains of her own glass, she pats Doc on the shoulder. “Maybe you want to go for a walk.”

The smuggler looks between the two of them. Wynonna’s suggestion is no Jedi mind-trick, but it’s all the hint that he needs. He nods, taking his glass with him. “I suppose there’s a few more marks left in this place to play with,” Doc winks in Nicole’s direction, squeezing her shoulder as he passes. 

After he’s gone, Wynonna scoots around the corner of the booth, moving closer. She leans forward and asks. “How long have you known where Nedley is?”

Nicole clutches her glass in both hands. “I’ve always known, Wy.”

The other woman nods. At this range now, Nicole can clearly spot the objects attached to the sides of her belt. A cylinder on one side, an emitter on the other. What could perhaps become a lightsaber, if only there were a crystal to bring it to life…

“What happened?” Wynonna pulls her attention back with a broad question. Too broad for Nicole to fully answer.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s been a year and a half, Nicole. If you’re seeking out Nedley  _ now, _ it’s because something happened.”

Nicole stares ahead at the empty end of the booth. Wynonna must sense her tension, her exhaustion. She must feel the undercurrent of something more. “I told you about the dreams,” she mutters, taking another sip of her drink.

“The creature.” Wynonna supplies.

“The Sleeper.”

“... And Waverly.”

Nicole turns to her, searching her clear blue eyes. They’re troubled, distant. “Something’s changed.”

“What?”

"Can’t you feel it?”

Wynonna holds her gaze steady for a moment before breaking off with a slight scowl. “The Force and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms. You know that.”

“I know that you’ve pulled back, Wy. But your connection isn’t severed.” She lays a hand on her forearm and calmly says. “You must feel it.” Wynonna looks down on her hand on her arm. She looks ready to disagree, but eventually turns away, nodding. “I know what Waverly feels like,” she reminds her. “I know her Force presence. And I know the presence of Tal Vosh, too. This is something… in between. And it seems that I have a direct line to it,” she finishes, taking her hand back.

“What do you mean?”

Now, it’s Nicole’s turn to look away. “The dreams are… different now. When I’m there, it’s as if she is, too. For real.”

Wynonna wants to dispute this. She opens her mouth, just slightly, as if to begin. But she can’t bring herself to do it. Because long before she was ever a smuggler, long before she was a non-believer, Wynonna was a Jedi apprentice, same as Nicole. Same as Waverly.

They were to be a new wave of Jedi, together. They were to herald an uprising, a balance in the Force unlike any they’d seen since—

Well. Since Wynonna and Waverly’s ancestor fell to the Dark. Since Order 77 dashed the lives, and the hopes, of the galaxy’s Force-sensitives. 

“I’m sure it’s some sort of trick,” Wynonna says instead.

“Probably,” Nicole agrees. “Which is why I need to get to Ahch-To.”

* * *

 

In spite of all the lying and cheating that Wynonna and Doc might indulge in within the walls of Maz’s castle, they’re good for their word where Nicole is concerned. Just hours after her arrival, they’re lifting off from the ground, the dark waters of Nymeve Lake rippling in their wake.

The old rust-bucket, a YT-1300 model named  _ Peacemaker _ (ironically so, due to its penchant for…  _ disrupting _ the peace in nearly every port it touches down in), is a newer acquisition of Wynonna’s—one she’d picked up after the order. Nicole straps in and holds on for dear life as the beast shudders into hyper-drive, focusing on the gold sabacc dice hanging before the pilot’s seat to focus herself. 

She doesn’t sleep during the journey, doesn’t even meditate. She won’t chance another…  _ incident _ while in Wynonna’s presence. Instead, she sits down at the old dejarik board outside of the cockpit and pits the tiny, holographic beasts against each other, drawing what little energy she can from her reserves.

Nicole is properly run-down by the time they arrive on Ahch-To. Enough so that Wynonna looks at her strangely as they land, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You all right?”

“Yeah,” Nicole waves her off, joining Doc up front. 

He stares out of the viewport with a look of amusement on his face. “Well, you’d think the old man wanted to be left alone or something.”

“Not very exciting, is it?”

Doc looks up at her and grins, his thick mustache bobbing with the expression. “Easier to make a dramatic entrance, I suppose.”

“Nedley will love that,” she mutters, biting back the nerves that she can feel building in her stomach. 

Minutes later, she’s standing at the top of the boarding ramp, looking out at the craggy green expanse of the island. In the distance, there are dozens of puffy, wide-eyed birds, either perched on rocks or waddling about the grass. And far off over the ridge, built into the crests, there are tiny domiciles.

She feels a hand on her shoulder and turns back. “You’re sure you can’t stay?” Nicole asks.

Wynonna shakes her head. “It’s not my place anymore.”

_ I’m not so sure that it’s mine either, _ Nicole thinks. Instead she nods, pulling Wynonna into a hug. “May the Force be with you,” she says quietly.

“You keep it,” Wynonna says with a half-hearted smile, pulling back. “You might need it more.”

* * *

 

Nicole watches  _ Peacemaker _ take off from a nearby hilltop. On a rock beside her, one of the fat, puffy birds chirrups indignantly, the freighter having woken it from a nap. Nicole manages half a smile before taking off up the steep hills, her exhaustion fighting the ascent with every heavy step. 

She wends her way up the mountainside, passing by clusters of huts. Every so often, small aliens, with gray fishy faces and contrasting bird-like feet stick their heads out of a window, peering at her with a narrowed gaze. 

Nicole keeps her head down, wondering if she can even find Nedley, now that she’s here. She reaches out in the Force repeatedly, but feels no sign of him. She’s so focused on his presence, as a matter of fact, that she nearly trips herself in surprise when she comes up over the ridge to find his familiar figure on the plateau.

His back is to her, but she could recognize those robes, that rigid posture anywhere. He’s hunched over, tending to a small garden, turning over the soil with a short till. 

Nicole watches him for a moment—watches the setting sun that backlights his gray hair, his bowed shoulders. She has visions, for a moment—not like the dreams, but true memories. Nedley, correcting her form during a duel. Inspecting the craftsmanship of her first lightsaber. Turning a blind eye when she and Waverly would sneak out of camp, together, to complete their “chores.”

So much time has passed. Too much, she realizes suddenly. Nedley… he’s so much older now. Older than years. Grizzled by an age somehow deeper than time can impart. 

“Master,” she calls out, suddenly plucking up the courage. 

Nedley goes even stiffer. She watches his hands clutch tightly around the till as he slowly turns. Nicole smiles nervously, though beneath the overgrowth of his gray beard, he wears a frown. 

Their eyes meet, and for a brief moment, the familiarity of it is like a sucker-punch to Nicole’s gut. Though she’s quite certain, in the same instance, that it’s not at all like it was before.

“You shouldn’t have come,” he says gruffly. And by the tone of his voice alone, she believes there may be some truth to that. 


	2. II - Waverly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all those who have read, liked, or commented thus far! It's very much appreciated : )

A tremor shoots through Waverly’s hand. She’s ashamed to admit it, but when she heard the teeth-grinding clatter of that all-too-familiar lightsaber hitting the floor, she flinched. Almost in time with the widening of Nicole’s—

_ No _ , she tells herself.  _ Nicole was not here. _ Nicole could  _ never _ be here. She would never allow that.

The doorway remains empty, with the exception of a dutiful little mouse-droid whizzing by. The floor bare, save for her own helmet. 

So, then why does the echo of that crashing hilt still reverberate through the chamber?

Why does her hand—the one held aloft, half in reach of the dropped weapon, the other in delayed beckoning—still shake?

* * *

 

“Lord Vosh.” General Lucado bows stiffly in greeting as Waverly arrives in the Star Destroyer’s docking bay. The stormtroopers stand at attention—row after row of them. Waverly chances a stray glance in their direction, immediately catching her own warped gaze in one of their black visors. She turns back to the front, jaw tight when she gives the General her own slight bow. 

“Lucado,” she greets coolly, standing beside the General with her hands clasped behind her back. 

Lucado has never been fond of her. A long-time member of the First Order’s initiative and personal servant to the Supreme Leader himself, she had always thought Tal Vosh’s sudden rise to power to be unearned. She held some modicum of respect for Lord Svane (or rather, merely, some terrible fear of the Dark disciple)—enough so that she would bite her tongue. But she was unwilling to give respect to Tal Vosh where due.

Waverly supposes they’ll have to do something about that, eventually.

“He’s late,” Lucado comments, voice dry. “Again.”

“He is near,” Waverly tells her, without meeting her gaze. She can feel her master’s approach.

“The Supreme Leader does not like to be kept waiting.”

Waverly turns her gaze on her sharply. “Only if the one he is waiting for is not worthy of his time,” she says measuredly. The General opens her mouth to retort, but the bay doors are opening, Lord Svane’s command shuttle dropping swiftly into the space before them. 

Waverly steps forward as the engines quiet and the boarding ramp deploys with a pneumatic hiss. She kneels, bowing her head as the stormtroopers salute in unison, Lucado placing her fist over her heart. 

The young disciple waits, keeping her gaze trained on the floor. From her periphery, she can see Svane’s shiny, black boots treading nimbly over the pathway, coming to an easy stop before her. 

“Rise,” he says smoothly. Waverly lifts her head and stands. Svane’s face is blank, almost grave, until his lips curl into a pointed, serpentine grin. He places one hand on Waverly’s shoulder, the other resting on the pommel of his curved saber. “Tal Vosh. You look well.”

“Thank you, Master. As do you.” 

Svane gestures for her to step back down the treadway, the General and her cohort trailing behind. He has yet to pay Lucado any mind, other than a curt nod. And she doesn’t take well to being ignored, even when the risk of stirring Svane’s unpredictable anger is present. 

“I received your reports of the mission on Dantooine,” Svane tells Waverly as they stride quickly down the corridor. “Another success.”

“As my reports indicated, Lord Svane,” Lucado chimes in from behind, placing emphasis on the word  _ my _ , “Lord Vosh and the contingent were able to recruit the majority of the villagers into service without—”

Svane stops suddenly, nearly tripping the General in the process. He turns on his heel and says, “I don’t believe I was speaking to you, General.” Then, cocking his head. “And where  _ do _ you think you’re going?”

“I am escorting you to Supreme Leader Bulshar, My Lord.”

Svane’s brow furrows as he turns to Waverly. “Does it seem to you that we are being led?”

Waverly smiles gently. “It does not, Master.”

“That’s what I thought.” Svane takes a step forward then, towering over Lucado. “I’m well acquainted with the path to the communications chamber, General.”

“Yes, My Lord. It’s just that Supreme Leader Bulshar and I—”

“Can speak  _ later _ ,” Svane informs her, his playful smile dropping completely. “What business Vosh and I have with the Supreme Leader does not concern you.”

General Lucado’s eyes flash with something. A premonition of danger, perhaps. But her pride forces her to forge onward, undeterred. “With all due respect, Lord Svane—”

The man’s hand snaps up so quickly, Lucado doesn’t even have time to flinch. He clenches it loosely—just enough so that Lucado chokes on her words, her own hand scrabbling instinctively for her throat. 

“With all due  _ respect _ , General,” Svane continues, voice cold, “I think you forget your place.”

Waverly watches, unflinching. A part of her—something deep down—wants to tear her gaze away. She, too, believes in the importance of respect. She has fought, for so many years, to earn her own. Revels in it, now that she has found it. But something about Svane’s pomp just doesn’t sit quite right with her.

An image flashes into her mind’s eye, for just a moment: Nicole’s wide-eyed stare. Her hand twitches, itching to reach for her saber.

“Master,” she finds herself impulsively uttering. He glances over at her, curious. Waverly squares her jaw. What exactly did she mean to say? “Perhaps the General can wait. The Supreme Leader should not.”

Svane keeps his eyes trained on his apprentice as his hand tightens, Lucado’s eyes widening for just a second before he releases his hold, fixing Waverly with a sharp-toothed smile. “You’re right,” he admits. “We  _ do _ have important matters to attend to, after all.” Just like that, Svane turns on his heel once again, striding down the corridor.

Waverly turns once, glancing at Lucado for one pitying second before she follows.

* * *

 

_ Waverly travels nearly three kilometers outside of camp before she spots Nicole’s strong, steady form. She’s sitting atop a hill, overlooking the forests beyond. The skies over Ossus are torn with clouds, the moonlight sheathed in a light pall. Nicole’s eyes are closed, a furrow in her brow.  _

_ She turns at Waverly’s approach, sensing her long before the other girl has a chance to speak.  _

_ “Waverly,” she stands, a look of concern etched over her face. “What are you doing up?” Then, perhaps noticing her slight limp, her eyes widen with alarm and aggravation, “You  _ walked _ here?” she asks, incredulous. _

_ “How else would I have found you?” Waverly comes to a stop just a few feet away. Nicole stiffens.  _

_ “I didn’t intend for you to find me.” _

_ “I know,” Waverly tells her, unable to mask the hurt in her voice. “I woke up, and you weren’t there. Not the first time, or the second.” Nicole looks down, half shame-faced, half stubborn. “Why not?” _

_ Nicole is silent for several long moments. Waverly takes another step forward.  _

_ “You weren’t concerned?” _

_ “Of course I was.” Nicole’s head snaps up, brow furrowed. “I asked after you. Wynonna was sick and tired of me, by the end of the night.” Her head drops then. “But I knew you’d be okay.” _

_ “So, why are you avoiding me?” When Nicole does not answer, Waverly presses, taking another step closer. “Is it something Master Nedley said?” _

_ Waverly knows already. Curtis, Gus, Shorty, Nedley—they’ve all had hushed conversations over the nature of Waverly and Nicole’s relationship. The two girls have been bonded since the beginning, since Nicole was brought to the temple at just ten years of age. It was only in recent years, since that deep bond transformed from one of friendship to one of… something  _ more _ , that the masters had grown concerned. _

_ They’ve all heard the stories of the Old Republic. Romantic entanglements were forbidden among the Jedi, whether or not it be with another Force-sensitive. The passions of romance, they believed, would lead to jealousy, anger, fear—pillars of the Dark Side.  _

_ The Jedi Order has progressed enough over the years that they’ve willingly shed most of the antiquated tenets of the Old Republic. But some still hold stock in those basic principles.  _

_ Nedley had never been of the mind to place limitations on who the apprentices could and could not love. But he’d been there, the other day, when Waverly had been attacked by the Zabrak headhunter. He’d watched Nicole’s swift and thoughtless reaction. _

_ He’d watched her impale the Zabrak with her lightsaber. _

_ “They don’t understand, Nicole—” _

_ “Perhaps  _ we _ don’t understand, Waverly.” _

_ She’s taken aback by the sharpness of Nicole’s tone. _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ When Nicole looks up, finally meeting her gaze, there’s a sense of anguish in her warm brown eyes. “I’ve always felt so in control. I’ve worked  _ so hard _ to be in control. But when you were attacked, it was just… I reacted. There was something in me, and I didn’t feel like I had any sort of grasp on it.” _

_ She’s quiet for a long moment, staring down at the grassy knoll. Her hands are balled into fists. “It’s not like that with the others. I can reason. I can compartmentalize. But just the thought of something happening to you…” _

_ “Nicole.” Waverly steps forward, taking the other girl’s hands into her own. She works hard to unball her fists. “Will you look at me?” Waverly places her hand on Nicole’s cheek, steering her gaze. “Hey,” she says softly. “Please listen to me. You  _ are _ in control.” _

_ “Waverly… I killed that man…” _

_ “And if you hadn’t, he would’ve tried to kill me. Or Nedley.” _

_ “So, I could’ve disarmed him. I could’ve severed a limb, if need be. I didn’t need to do what I did,” Nicole grounds out. She tries to pull away, but Waverly won’t allow it. “Waverly, how could I be so—” _

_ “Afraid,” Waverly finishes for her, eyes intense. Nicole swallows. “That’s all it is. They’ve been saying these things about us for years now, ever since they found out. And you’ve allowed it to get to your head.” _

_ Nicole looks down. She stares at the bandages on Waverly’s arm, her hobbled leg. She swallows, throat tight. “Maybe I am,” she whispers. _

_ “Love,” Waverly’s hand settles on the back of her neck as she rests their foreheads gently together, “you have no reason to be.” _

_ Nicole closes her eyes, feeling them wet with sudden tears. “How could you say that?” she quietly asks. _

_ “Because we are strong… so much more so together.” She pulls back, just enough to look into Nicole’s eyes. “We fail only when we allow the weaknesses of others to drive us apart.” _

* * *

 

Waverly wonders what the Supreme Leader truly looks like without the cover of his black and silver mask. Is there some sort of disfigurement? An ages old injury? She can never tell.

All Waverly knows for certain is that, behind the mask, lies her fears.

These thoughts loom over her in the presence of Bulshar. His over-large holo-projection sits imposingly at the center of the room, looking down upon Lord Svane and Waverly with a look of mild indifference. 

“... there are backwater planets all over the Outer Rim territories, filled with villages just like the one we seized on Dantooine. The acquisition might seem minor, but with each, we add dozens more willing bodies to our cause—”

“I understand that, Lord Svane,” Bulshar says with a wave of his hand. He leans to the side of his throne, almost bored. “Numbers are not my concern.”

“Even if those numbers more than double Resistance forces?” Svane asks tentatively. He may be one of the few who can get away with questioning the Supreme Leader, but even that has its strict limits. 

Finally, Bulshar deigns to sit back, drumming his hands thoughtfully over the arms of his seat. After a moment’s consideration he asks, “The Resistance has something we do not.”

Svane waits for him to continue. Eventually he asks, “And that would be?”

“Jedi.”

Svane immediately balks, Waverly glancing over at him. Her disapproval is hidden behind her own helmet. “The  _ Jedi _ are cowards, Supreme Leader. Those that we have not already slain are in hiding. And even if they were not,” he places a hand on Waverly’s shoulder, squeezing almost painfully tight, “they could not match our power.”

Bulshar leaves them waiting, as always. “And you are content with that margin of error?”

“That is not—”

“With every loose end, Lord Svane, the Resistance is granted another opportunity, no matter how small, to thwart our efforts. Their leader, as a matter of fact,” he leans forward, the intensity of the gesture palpable even through holo-projection, “she is a Jedi, is she not, Vosh?”

Waverly steps forward, “Force-sensitive, My Lord. Her political affiliations prevented her from ever committing to full apprenticeship, let alone completing the trials. She’s never even carried a lightsaber.”

The Supreme Leader, considers this. “And why is she still alive?”

Waverly opens her mouth, unsure of how to answer. Svane is equally hesitant, but steps in nonetheless. “She will not be, for much longer. I can assure you of that. Our top intelligence agents believe they may have a lock on the location of the Resistance base.”

“I see,” Bulshar coolly replies. “And are these really our  _ top _ intelligence agents? Because their lack of speed seems to belie their talent.”

Svane stiffens. He’s been chided by Bulshar before, plenty of times. But Waverly can see this unrelenting, back-handed dressing-down is grating on him. She feels pity for whoever is fool enough to cross him when he leaves this chamber.

“What you’re doing—it is not enough,” Bulshar tells him simply. “What the First Order is doing—it is not enough. I want coordinates. And if I do not have them soon… well. I may start to lose confidence in your command,” he teases, his apathy cutting. “And we wouldn’t want that now, would we?”

Lord Svane clenches his hands, white-knuckled, behind his back. “No, Supreme Leader.”

“I’m pleased that we have an understanding. You are dismissed now.” With a nod, both Svane and Waverly turn to leave. “Not you, Vosh.”

Waverly stops short, Svane turning back to look at her with a hint of curiosity, perhaps even mild envy on his face. He simply raises his eyebrows then, striding out of the chamber. 

Waverly turns, stepping deeper into the room. She kneels, unsure of what else to do, and bows her head. “Yes, Supreme Leader?” Her heart hammers in her chest.

“Stand,” he instructs. “And take off that ridiculous helmet.”

Waverly’s fingers tremble just slightly as she reaches back to unclasp the helmet. She feels somehow safer with it on. Invulnerable. 

How hypocritical that this masked man should force her to remove it. Still, she does as she is told, unclasping her helmet and clutching it under her arm. 

“That’s much better. Easier to know what you might be thinking.” She’s not certain, but behind the mask, she imagines a smiles. “You’ve been with us for some now.”

“Well over a year, My Lord.”

“And you have proven yourself quite useful, in that time, young one.” She feels some relief at the comment, even as Bulshar pauses to ruminate on this fact. “Do you know why I sought you out in the first place?”

“I… do not. No.”

“I sensed in you, from our first meeting, exceptional power. Exceptional potential. A great deal of which has come to fruition in the time since. However, I sometimes worry that your talents are not being… utilized properly.”

Waverly’s brow furrows. “You don’t?”

“Not quite…” Bulshar sits up straight, steepling his hands. “And so I have a special mission for you, Tal Vosh.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Waverly nods, feeling a surge of pride bubbling up beneath her previous anxiety. 

“There is a Jedi. Close to your age,” he begins. “She  _ belongs _ to me.” Waverly schools her features carefully. But immediately, something in her goes cold. “Do you know the Jedi of whom I speak?”

Waverly licks her lips, careful not to deliberate for too long. “A Dathomiri woman,” she answers.

“Yes. Just a girl when she was taken from me.”

“I know her,” Waverly says simply. An almost painful understatement. 

“I want you to retrieve her for me.”

“Retrieve her?” Waverly asks. Such a simple request.

“Ideally, she’ll go willingly.” 

Waverly has had dreams of such a thing happening. They’ve always been a team, since they were children. To set herself upon a separate path was the hardest thing she’s ever done. One that’s left her feeling somehow…  _ lesser _ , in spite of all that she has gained. 

They could be so strong again. Together. If only she could find a way to make Nicole see reason.

“I will make sure of it, Supreme Leader.”

* * *

 

Waverly doesn’t expect to the sun. She has no reason to, here in her cold, metal room, aboard a cold, metal Star Destroyer. She expects, naturally, clinical white lighting. A black, paneled ceiling. And somewhere, just beyond these walls, the endless expanse of space.

But here she is, on a lush, green plain, the sun setting on the horizon beyond.

Granted, it’s not the setting sun her gaze is fixed upon, vibrant as it may be. No, it’s the figure standing on the precipice, looking out at the sea that surrounds them. 

Nicole turns instinctively, sensing the second presence behind her. Their gazes meet.

“You don’t look surprised to see me,” Waverly notes. Her voice carries on the gentle breeze between them.

“Maybe I’m not.”

Waverly searches for her emotional thread in the Force. At one time, it was so easy to find. So close, it seemed to nest inside of her. Now, she can scarcely grasp it.

“It seems that we’re connected.”

“Haven’t we always been?” Nicole asks, voice even. “You can change your name. But you can’t change what we’ve shared, Waverly.”

She doesn’t expect the pain of it—to hear her own name escape Nicole’s mouth. It’s been so long. 

The ease with which is lances through Waverly incenses her to no end. “Don’t call me that.”

Nicole steps forward, seemingly unafraid. “You can’t control me.” The corner of her mouth hitches in a near-imperceptible smile.  _ “Waverly.” _

She makes a mistake then. A callow mistake. She looks down. Just for a split second, down at the lightsaber hanging from Nicole’s belt. But it’s enough so that when her hand reaches out to pull the weapon to her, Nicole’s hand follows almost immediately.

The responding pull is enough to shake Waverly’s confidence. She thought she would have grown stronger by now, with the training she’s received from Lord Svane, the Dark coursing through her.

But the lightsaber hangs suspended in mid-air between them, their powers evenly matched. Waverly’s hand clenches, teeth grit almost painfully. But still, it does not budge.

“You disarmed me once before, Waverly,” Nicole reminds her, voice not nearly as strained as it ought to be. “I won’t let it happen again.”

“It  _ is _ my lightsaber, you know. Perhaps I’ve just come to reclaim it.”

“You gave up that right,” Nicole spits, “many months ago.”

Focused as she is on the saber between them, Waverly barely has time to move before Nicole draws the small blaster on her hip, firing without hesitation.

* * *

 

She hits the cold metal floor of her own quarters, almost dizzy from the transition. Her own shock prevents her from moving for a moment, until the pain in her shoulder urges her to act.

_A blaster_ _burn_ , she notes, as she brings her fingers shakily to the mark. _A graze_. As she retracts her hand, the blood glistening on her fingertips, she has to wonder:

What would have happened if she hadn’t moved?


	3. III - Nicole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to jaybear1701 for beta reading!
> 
> If you're celebrating today, Happy Easter! If not, enjoy some candy anyway : )

Nicole stands on the precipice with her blaster in her left hand, her lightsaber now back safely in her right. The blade hums in time with her buzzing adrenaline. She takes a deep breath, staring at the empty spot on the grass where Waverly had been just seconds ago.

It’s the squawking of a Lanai, one of the Ahch-To natives, that brings her back into the present. A male and a female come running out of their hut, one with their hands thrown up, the other pointing emphatically at the blaster-fire-sized hole that’s blown its way into the exterior of their small hut. 

Nicole blinks. “Oh,  _ shit. _ I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” she runs forward. They probably can’t understand at all what she’s saying, but she throws her hands up in a universally conciliatory gesture and paints her face with the most shameful look possible. 

It’s then that Nedley comes storming up the hill, voice gruff as he shouts, “Now, what’s going on up here?’

“I didn’t mean to!” Nicole blurts.

“Put your damn lightsaber away,” he hisses, stepping between her and the natives in an attempt to assuage them. He talks their language a little bit—enough to stop them from yelling. But after a few moments of Nicole standing there uselessly, he turns to her and mutters, “My hut. Now.”

She’s no longer his apprentice. No longer subject to whatever consequences he might deem fitting. But something about that tone still strikes a visceral chord in her. So, she nods, putting away her weapons and striding back down the hillside. 

Several minutes later, Nedley pulls back the curtain and meets her inside of the hut. “You’re going to fix that,” he tells her, pointing a finger. “First thing in the morning.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

“And if I catch you sleeping past  _ dawn _ , you’re getting a face full of salt water. You hear?”

“Yes, Master,” Nicole sighs.

“And for the love of—don’t call me that!” He turns in a huff, grabbing a cup and a carafe full of light green milk, and pours himself a drink. “Half a  _ day _ , and already…” he grumbles. “It’s taken me over a year to get the natives to trust me,” he tells her, taking a long sip from his drink. The green milk clings to his mustache. “And here you are, blowing my credibility to bits—”

“I’ll fix it, Mas—” she stops herself. Old habits die hard. “Nedley.” 

“Good. And then, maybe, you’ll call whatever freighter it was that dropped you off and have them make a loop-around to pick you back  _ up _ .”

_ Wynonna’s freighter, _ she wants to correct, but decides to withhold that information for the time being. Wynonna and him never did quite get along. Instead, she tells him, “I don’t think I can leave, just yet.”

“And why is that?” he asks, plopping down opposite her.

“Because I need your help.”

Nedley gives her a stern look. “I could’ve guessed that.”

“You don’t want to know why?”

He pauses for a couple long moments, finishing what milk is left in his glass. When it’s empty, he wipes his mustache with the back of his hand and says, “I doubt I’ll be of much help.”

Nicole fixes him with a hard, measured stare. He meets her eyes, unabashedly. “There are dark things,” she says quietly, “ _ pulling _ . I can feel them. Odd waves in the Force. You must feel them, too.”

Nedley taps his foot. She sees a flicker of something in his eyes, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it appears. And then Nedley is standing abruptly, grabbing a couple of the empty milk carafes from a shelf beside the hut’s window.

“I don’t suppose that’s my business now, is it?”

It’s not the answer she was expecting. She’s both angered and crestfallen all in one. As he’s about to walk from the hut, she calls to him, a note of desperation plain in her voice. “Nedley.” He stops, but does not turn around. “I think I may be in danger.”

After a brief moment, he glances over his shoulder, brow furrowed. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but seems to think better of it. Instead, he merely shakes his head and exasperatedly mutters, “Nice to see some things haven’t changed…”

Some things: the way Nicole is left trailing in Nedley’s wake, unsure of how to respond.

* * *

 

_ “You know, there’s something distinctly… bureaucratic about all this,” Nicole says quietly into her drink, the distaste plain. Though she’s discreetly tucked into the back booth of a Coruscanti tavern, Nedley has no trouble picking her up over his comms-link. _

_ “Foiling an assassination attempt— _ that’s _ bureaucratic to you?” _

_ “Supposed assassination,” Nicole reminds him, not for the first time, placing her drink back on the table. The would-be killer sits just across the room, unobtrusively sipping on her own drink. “And as of yet, all it’s really entailed is a whole lot of sitting around.” _

_ Down the avenue, milling about the corner, Nedley scowls. “You know, I really would have thought this would go without saying, Nicole, but  _ complaining _ is sort of against the Jedi code.” _

_ Back in the tavern, the young woman—still just a soft-faced adolescent with barely a lick of real-world combat to her name—tugs on her hood and smiles. “Not complaining, Master. Merely pointing out that, if the Senator truly needed protection, her contingent may have contracted us for something other than reconnaissance work.” _

_ Nedley pauses for a moment before telling her, “Being a Jedi isn’t all about swinging that lightsaber, kiddo. We are ambassadors of peace. When the Old Republic was in place yet,” he begins, and Nicole rolls her eyes. She’s heard plenty about the Old Republic. And she’s not sure that she entirely agrees with their creed. She tunes back in just in time to hear Nedley conclude, “... as much about working  _ with _ the people as it is fighting crazy cultists and dark warriors.” _

_ Nicole mulls over this momentarily. “Remind me again why the Old Republic is the shining example of Jedi conduct? I seem to remember them… having some  _ issues _ of their own.” She says it with a half-smile, picturing the frown deepening on her master’s face. _

_ “Well, for starters—” he huffs, only to be cut off when a scuffle arises in the center of the tavern, their mark at the heart of it.  _

_ “Looks like we’ve got a bit of trouble here,” she says, rising from her own seat. She can barely hide the excitement in her voice. _

_ “What kind of—” _

_ “Make sure you’ve got your eyes on the exits.” _

_ Nicole’s sure that elicits some comments about who’s  _ supposed  _ to be giving the orders here, but she can barely hear it. She strides towards the growing scuffle with her adrenaline already rushing. It’s not so much that she’s itching for a fight—just for any action, period. Any chance to do some real good for someone today.  _

_ Nicole enters into the fray full-tilt, pulling men and women off each other in a bid to make it to the fight’s focal point. She even takes an elbow to the face in the process, brushing off the ache of it in her haste. However, by the time she pushes through, the would-be assassin is already making her exit.  _

_ Nicole catches the fringes of her cloak out of the corner of her eye and hisses into her comms-link, “Back door!” She charges through, shattering a glass as she nearly knocks over the disgruntled Gamorrean bartender in the process. “Sorry, sorry!” _

_ She barrels through the back door, breathing in the musk and humidity of that recycled Coruscanti city oxygen. Their mark is already rushing to the end of the alleyway, hopping right into the driver’s seat of a waiting airspeeder.  _

_ “I guess we’re taking this off the ground,” Nedley grumbles, tugging on the shoulder of her robe as he bounds up behind her. “C’mon, kid.”  _

_ Paragons of morality and justice though they may be, sometimes the means to a righteous end may require a dubiously  _ borrowed _ airspeeder—sometimes at the expense of an incredibly displeased civilian.  _

_ Unsurprisingly, their hurriedly uttered, “Wait here—we’ll have it back in no time!” isn’t much in the way of appeasement. _

_ Nedley hops into the driver’s seat without question, jolting them from the ground almost before Nicole has time to get settled. He cuts through air traffic, fighting to keep his eyes on the Assassin’s tail. Several beeps, shouts, and wind-hushed expletives are tossed their way, but in her determination, Nicole barely hears them. Her gaze is locked on the assassin’s speeder.  _

_ They weave between buildings and through tunnels, tearing around corners at breakneck speed as Nicole quite literally holds on for dear life. But she knows—it’s the most fun she’s had in a long time.  _

_ “She can’t know we’re following her,” Nicole shouts, her voice nearly drowned in the rush of hot air. But Nedley is so attuned to the sound that he hones right in.  _

_ “I’m afraid we’ll lose ground if we stray too far.” _

_ Nicole’s gaze narrows in thought. “Get  _ above _ her.” _

_ Nedley almost smirks, muttering with a half-shrug. “Worth a shot.” _

_ The speeder climbs high—so high that they nearly lose sight. But after a few nerve-wracking moments of strained sight, the assassin appears to gain confidence that she’s lost them. Which gives Nedley just the opening he needs to swoop down over top. _

_ Without waiting for the go-ahead, Nicole begins to lift out of her seat. “I’m going to do something you’re  _ not _ going to like.” _

_ “Nicole—” her master warns. But before he has time to finish, she’s already vaulting over the side of the speeder. _

_ She’d been aiming for the waiting passenger seat of the assassin’s ride. But noticing their approach, the woman swerves at the last second, throwing off the young Jedi’s trajectory. Nicole is just barely able to grab hold of the vehicle’s side-door. She swings wildly from the speeder, throwing it off balance. Nicole can hear the assassin curse as she attempts to shake the Jedi off.  _

_ “Don’t look down, don’t look down…” Nicole reminds herself. Just as she looks down at the cloud-tangled cityscape of Coruscant,  _ far _ below. “Idiot.” _

_ The assassin is torn between attempting to throw off Nicole and evading Nedley. He pulls his airspeeder alongside her own, ramming warningly into the side. She immediately draws her blaster, firing off shots to beat him back.  _

_ With the assassin’s focus scattered, Nicole is able to pull herself into the speeder, gracelessly tumbling into the passenger seat. It’s just enough to startle the assassin, who turns on Nicole with her blaster ready to fire— _

_ Only to have it torn from her hand and fired on herself. _

_ In the heat of the moment, even with the focus of the Force on her side, it’s hard for Nicole to get her aim right. The shot tears through the assassin’s shoulder and out of her back at an odd angle, causing her to shriek in pain. _

_ “Whoops,” Nicole mutters, seizing the opportunity to knock her hard in the back of her head with the butt of the blaster. It’s not much, but enough to knock the assassin out cold, forcing Nicole to grab hold of the wheel and make something of a slapdash emergency… landing. _

_ The wayward speeder skids and bounces across three different rooftops before finally teetering to a stop on top of an apartment building. It all happens so quickly, and so shakily, that Nicole barely has time to register anything before her head crashes into the speeder’s dash.  _

_ Moments later, Nedley is at her side, calling her name as he pulls her up by the back of her now-torn robe. “Can you hear me? Nicole?” _

_ The blood is warm on her face, dripping from some point above her left eye. She’s dazed and mildly confused, but as Nedley’s face swims into vision, she does manage a smile.  _

_ “Ta da?” _

_ For a moment, she actually thinks he might Force-choke her. _

* * *

 

That night, Nedley sets up a makeshift bed on the floor of his own hut, made from old linens and blankets. She uses a half-empty bag of grain for a pillow, much to the protest of her neck. In truth, however, she’s so exhausted that the discomfort doesn’t even faze her. 

There’s a sense of security to be found here, with Nedley so close. She thought that may have vanished after all this time, after what happened. But the feeling remains, nonetheless, somehow unblemished by their failures. 

That is, until the dream seizes her. 

It’s not one of their face-to-face meetings, as it has been. No, this time, she’s back beneath the depths, in The Sleeper’s grasp. It seems almost where she left off the last time the creature pulled her under. 

The last time  _ Waverly _ pulled her under. 

She’s staring up, watching the bluish-gray circle of light from the cavern above shrink as she sinks deeper into the pool. She’s calm, almost unnaturally so, until that circle of light shrinks into a bright  _ dot. _ And then something in her seizes. 

Her body is wracked with a shiver, the pressure on her chest suddenly compounding. She looks down, seeing Waverly’s arms around her abdomen and legs in a morbid embrace, and gasps. 

When the water enters her throat, it’s so cold, it seems to pierce, like a blade. Her lungs strain and heave. Waverly looks up at her and smiles with eerie gentleness. Eerie comfort. 

_ “You don’t have to fight me, Nicole.”  _ The whisper enters her mind, warm and tentacled.  _ “Let me in.” _

She strains and kicks and pulls until her limbs slacken with exhaustion, and she begins to slide through Waverly’s arms, eventually finding herself eye-level with the other woman. Waverly tightens her embrace then, reaching up to cup Nicole’s cheek. The Sleeper’s thumb glides over her skin.

_ “I’ve got you now. Don’t worry.”  _ Waverly’s hand moves down to her chin, thumb tracing her lip.  _ “Let me in…”  _

Nicole feels the pull then. She could chalk it up to the Force, perhaps—whatever cord still binds them. But it’s something deeper than that, something belonging not to any external bond, but to she and Waverly only.

As her body starts to give out, she allows her head to nod forward, lips parting. Waverly presses her mouth to hers.

A gush of warmth pools within Nicole’s chest. And just behind it, creeping and icy, a near-physical terror.

* * *

 

“Nicole!”

She startles awake to the sound of her own name, erupting frantically from Nedley’s mouth. His hands grasp the collar of her shirt as he shakes her. He stops only when he sees her gasping, eyes wide, though his fists do not loosen.

“You’re awake,” he sighs, clearly relieved. 

“I’m awake,” she repeats, not sure if she believes it herself. She’s cold. Enough so that she’s shaking, in spite of the sweat she can feel soaking her clothes and face. 

“You were dreaming,” he begins, standing to retrieve a cup of water. She pushes herself into a sitting position, thanking him when he hands it to her. “What about?”

She takes a sip of the water, though her stomach seems to protest, roiling uncomfortably. After a moment, she meets his gaze. “I came to you for a reason, Master,” she whispers. This time, he doesn’t correct her. 

He rolls off his haunches and into a tired sit. “I could  _ feel _ you dreaming,” he tells her. Then, staring at her sternly, concernedly, “And I’ve  _ closed _ myself to the Force, Nicole. Like so many of us. I’ve pushed it away. But whatever  _ that _ was… I could feel it.”

She takes a deep breath, pulling one of the sheets around her shoulders. She can’t stop shivering, despite the heat of the island night. “Waverly…”  He’s ready with a question, but she stops him. “These aren’t just dreams though. It’s like… like she’s really present, you know? Like she’s physically there.” Nedley’s brow furrows. “I think the Force is trying to… pull us together or something.”

He squares his jaw, shaking his head. After a moment’s pause, he begins, “Nicole, you know what happened the last time you were together.” She looks away in answer. Of course she remembers—she could never  _ forget _ . “If the Force brings you together now, it’s so one of you can be destroyed.”

She looks up when he stands. “How do you mean?”

He walks over to the chest at the foot of his bed and kneels, pulling open the clasps. He reaches inside, rummaging until he finds what he’s looking for. “I mean,” he says quietly, pulling out the battered old lightsaber— _ his _ lightsaber—and holding it carefully in his hands. “You shouldn’t have survived the last encounter.”

After a moment’s deliberation, he engages the blade. When he turns to her, his eyes shine in the green glow. “Waverly won’t falter again, Nicole. And neither can you.”

* * *

 

_ “Laundry duty?” _

_ Nicole doesn’t startle at the sound of that familiar, teasing tone. She turns, wringing out one of the Masters’ tunics with a grimace. Waverly’s smile falters for a moment as she takes in the bruising on Nicole’s face.  _

_ “Unfortunately,” she answers. _

_ “And what exactly did you do to deserve that?” _

_ “Oh, Nedley didn’t mention?” Nicole asks sarcastically. He was in such a huff when they returned to Ossus that she half-expected him to announce her recklessness to the entire camp, just to shame her. Instead, he grounded her with a week’s worth of laundry duty and marched off to his own tent.  _

_ “I tried asking, but he got all grumbly and told me I should speak to you instead.” Nicole snorts as Waverly comes around the water basin, running a finger along the rim. “If I had to guess, I might say it has something to do with—” She points a finger, circling it in the air before Nicole’s face. “—that mess.” _

_ “You mean my face?” Nicole asks sarcastically. “Flattering.” _

_ “We should go for a walk,” Waverly suggests after a pause. Though given her brook-no-argument tone, Nicole knows it’s more of a demand. _

_ “I should finish my chores before Nedley doubles down on them.” _

_ “Nicole.” All pretense of teasing has gone out of Waverly’s voice. “Come with me.” _

_ She wrings the tunic out one more time before slinging it over the wash-line with the rest, following Waverly into the forest. They walk for several moments before they’re well away from camp, shrouded in the quiet of a still copse. Nicole eventually rests with her back to a tree, hands folded in front of her as she recounts the events on Coruscant at Waverly’s behest.  _

_ Once she’s finished, she waits patiently as Waverly paces. Eventually, the young woman stops dead and asks, “What were you thinking?” _ _   
_

_ “I was thinking that we had a mission, and I was going to complete it no matter what.” _

_ Waverly peers at her, incredulous. “Wrong answer.” Then, she steps forward, pointing a finger in her face. Nicole backs further into the tree. “You weren’t thinking at all.” _

_ “Well, I wouldn’t say that considering--” _

_ “And you rarely  _ do _ think, Nicole,” she says pointedly. “Not in the moment. Not of the bigger picture.” _

_ Nicole stands a bit straighter, cheeks hot with her indignation. “There is good, and there is evil, Waverly. That’s the bigger picture. And any action I can take to eliminate the latter is forethought enough.” _

_ “Bantha-shit,” Waverly hisses. “There is good, and there is evil. And then there is an  _ entire _ world of action and consequence in-between.” _

_ “Oh, and you’re so certain of that, are you?” Nicole pushes off the tree, brushing past her. “Because you know everything. Because you’ve got our roles in this all figured out.” _

_ “Because I know everything?” Waverly asks in offense, voice rising. _

_ “You certainly preach like it.” _

_ Something flickers in Waverly’s gaze, and Nicole is sure that she’s overstepped. But things have been tense lately, with their Jedi trials approaching. And they, specifically, have been under far more scrutiny from the Masters.  _

_ “I don’t know everything, Nicole,” Waverly says, voice low, struggling to reign in her temper. “I’m self-assured. Because I plan ahead. Because I can see more than two or three steps in front of me.” _

_ Nicole swallows thickly, biting her tongue. She’s offended, yes. She can read between the lines. But it’s not just the anger that stings. _

_ Next to Nedley’s opinion, Waverly’s is the one that she cares most about in this world. And she’d hoped that the other padawan—the woman she loves—had thought more of her than her impulsivity. Than her foolishness.  _

_ She’s quiet for several moments before she begins to storm off. “I get it, Waverly. I’m not half the Jedi you’ll ever be. We  _ all _ know that.” _

_ She’s barely bounded out of the clearing before Waverly sighs and calls after her. “Nicole, wait.” _

_ “It’s fine, Waves.” _

_ “No.” Something grabs hold of her then, and it’s only half Waverly’s hand. The other half is something far stronger than that. The Force, or something more. “It’s  _ not _ fine.” _

_ Nicole wishes she was strong enough to just walk away. But she can’t. Instead, she turns with her fists clenched.  _

_ “I’m…” Waverly begins, struggling. “I’m sorry. This is coming out all wrong.” Her frustration is plain. Her lingering hurt, just as obvious. She runs a hand through her hair, releasing her hold on Nicole. “I didn’t bring you out here to scold you like one of the Masters.” _

_ “Then what did you mean to do?” _

_ Their gazes meet. “I’m just trying to understand, Nicole.” _

_ “Understand what?” _

_ “Why you’re so willing to put yourself in danger. Why you’re so… careless. With your own life.” _

_ Nicole can see it then—the fear in Waverly’s eyes. It’s sharp, insistent. Enough so that the anger instantly flees Nicole, a sense of guilt taking its place.  _

_ “I’m not,” she tries weakly. But they both know that’s not true. _

_ “Don’t.” _

_ Nicole is quiet for several moments. Her fists unclench. “I’m not… it’s just that…” _

_ “What?” Waverly gently coaxes, stepping closer.  _

_ Nicole breathes in deeply. “It’s been ten years, Waverly,” she says quietly. “Since Nedley took me from them. From Bulshar’s cult.” She grimaces. They all know where Nicole came from. It’s not something she’s ever been able to hide from. But she’s tried so hard to ignore it, nonetheless. “I’m not like the rest of you. I want to be… so badly. But I just feel like… I have so much to prove…” _

_ “No,” Waverly cups her cheeks in her hands. “Nicole, no. You have proven yourself  _ so _ many times. Where you came from does not make you  _ less _ than us. You are not the ones who made you.” _

_ The irony of that statement, coming from Waverly’s lips, of all people. And she doesn’t even know it. _

_ But Nicole does. _

_ The guilt of that secret knowledge hangs over her, weighs upon her. If only Waverly knew the truth. She wouldn’t be so quick to forgive any of them. Least of all Nicole. _

_ “You’re right,” Nicole agrees, clearing her throat. Still, she pulls away, a sense of panic clawing at her heart. “Of course. It’s just…” _

_ “What?” Waverly reaches for her again. _

_ Nicole looks down at the other girl’s hand on her wrist, then up to meet her eyes. There are so many things she wants to say. So many things that she can’t. _

_ “I love you, Waverly. And I should be better. For you.” _

_ Waverly wraps her up tightly in her arms, shaking her head. She breathes into Nicole’s neck. “I only need you to be more careful.” _

_ “Careful,” Nicole repeats quietly, breathing in the soft scent of Waverly’s hair.  _

_ As if it can be enough. _

* * *

 

Ahch-To is peaceful, in the dark. More so than Nicole would’ve thought.

Her eyes are closed. She can hear the siren’s call of a sea-cow in the distance. The dulled roar of a wave crashing against the jagged rocks so far below.

She takes another step back, testing the limits. The heel of her right boot passes over the cliff’s edge, as a small shower of pebbles crumbles loose and tumbles downward.

She can hear that, too. Just like she hears the single footfall overhead, the whoosh of robes fluttering in the wind. 

Nicole rolls forward, sweeping out a leg as she ignites her lightsaber. Just in time for Nedley’s green blade to clash with her own.

Her hands tighten around the hilt. In the green-blue light of their sabers, she can see Nedley’s smile answering her own. 

“You lied,” Nicole observes, attempting to kick his feet out from under him. He dodges, just as she expected. But it gives her the second necessary to spring off from the ground and flip back into a standing position. “You did miss this.”

Nedley spins his lightsaber in an agile figure-eight, flexing some old muscles. He tries to hide his smirk, but Nicole catches that telltale quiver in his mustache. “More than I missed your guff, at least.”

Their lightsabers clash once more, Nicole pressing forward with everything that she has. “But you  _ did _ miss it.”

“Nicole,” Nedley warns, leveling her with a hard Force-shove. He holds nothing back now. Neither of them can afford to. “Enough talking.”

Nicole grounds herself and swings, “If you say so, Master.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, all, for the continued response to this story. I truly love writing it. The only drawback is that it's making me a spend a little too much time on the Saber Forge webstore. 
> 
> My wallet is going to hate me.


	4. IV - Waverly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deeper look into Waverly's past leads to a dangerous development for the First Order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this one, all. The combo of a wicked cold and craziness at work has not been kind. I hope you enjoy!

Remembering is a double-edged blade. 

Sometimes, it fuels the blaze within Waverly, anchoring her more firmly in her present station. Other times, it cuts her down. 

Just as swiftly as Bulshar might, if given reason. 

* * *

 

_ There’s something comforting about feeling the sand between one’s toes. Hotter than loam, softer than grass.  _

_ Waverly is six, and she knows that in some corners of Tatooine, a child such as herself can sink deeply enough into the sand that she might never be able to dig herself out.  _

_ Granted, the time for exploring is limited on Uncle Curtis and Aunt Gus’ moisture farm. They may be one of dozens in the region, but their modest harvest is a staple out here in the far reaches. And Waverly and Wynonna have been hard at work (the latter with some resistance) since they could walk.  _

_ In the evenings, the two girls sit outside together on the dunes, skin sun-kissed and warm from endless days spent in the heat. Side-by-side, they watch the twin suns set over their desolate home planet and talk of exploration.  _

_ “Daddy was an explorer,” Waverly reminds Wynonna, near nightly. “Someday, we will be, too.” _

_ “Daddy is gone,” Wynonna always counters, the hardness having left her tone after nearly the tenth time she’d had to say it. “Willa is gone. And they’re not coming back.”  _

_ Mama left, too, just in a different way. One of the Dark Ones got ahold of her, as Curtis and Gus would always say. In such a tone that both girls were left wondering what kind of person their mama might have been. Or their father and older sister, for that matter.  _

_ Still, Curtis and Gus raise them to be better. It’s a quiet, humble life. Sometimes boring. But it’s the life that they wanted. _

_ Until the Force has other plans. _

_ The elders have heard rumblings of Bulshar’s return for many months by the time the Dark Lord’s disciples touch down on Tatooine. Curtis and Gus shake the girls awake in the night, stuffing rucksacks into their hands and telling them to take only what they need. If not for the terror present in their gazes, the girls might question it. As it is, they hop out of bed without delay and do as they are told.  _

_ They make it to Anchorhead crowded in Uncle Curtis’ landspeeder. Waverly and Wynonna crouch together in the very back, hidden underneath a thick blanket. It’s hot and mildly suffocating, but the tension radiating off of Gus and Curtis is palpable. The girls barely make a peep until heading out of the village and towards Mos Eisley. _

_ “I wish things could be different,” Gus explains to them gently as they wait for the freighter that will take them away from Tatooine. “But we can no longer stay here. It’s not safe anymore.” _

_ Something in her tone startles Waverly, even if it’s irrational. She’s been left by enough people in her life that the thought of going away hollows out a painful pit in her stomach. “We can stay together though. Right, Aunt Gus?” _

_ Gus puts on a stern, almost righteous half-smile. She cups both girls’ cheeks and looks at them in turn. “Your Uncle Curtis and I will never leave you, you hear? When your mama left, we swore we would always look after you. That’s not going to change anytime soon.” Her tone is firm enough to appease the sisters. Though there’s a niggling worry in the back of Waverly’s young mind. One that just won’t seem to leave her be. _

_ It only gets worse, much later the next day, when they’ve managed to secure passage to an odd sounding planet that Waverly has never heard of: Ossus. Curtis tells them that they’re going to meet a dear, old friend of his. That they might be able to make some new friends, too—children their age. Children  _ like them _ , Curtis says. Though neither Waverly or Wynonna really know what that means. _

_ They’re crowded into the ship’s cargo hold. Close quarters. Gus and Curtis stay up talking in hushed whispers long after they’ve assumed both girls are asleep. _

_ “I think it’s time,” Curtis whispers, his voice lifting some of the fog of Waverly’s exhaustion. She keeps her eyes closed, refusing to stir. Her uncle’s hand is heavy on her back as she curls against Wynonna. “Nedley and Shorty may take some convincing, but…” _

_ “I wanted to keep them hid,” Gus reminds him, her voice noticeably weary.  _

_ “I know, dear. I know.” He’s quiet for a long moment then. “I think we’re putting them in more danger by denying them their gifts.” _

_ “Gifts,” Gus scowls. Almost like it’s a curse. _

_ “Wynonna will be a quick study,” Curtis says, voice even quieter. “She’s got a temper. But the girl needs a purpose, even now. And we can give her one.” _

_ Gus hesitates. “Wynonna isn’t the one that I’m worried about.” _

_ Curtis sighs. “Waverly is a good girl.” _

_ “But the prophecy, Curtis—” _

_ “Will never come to fruition,” he firmly promises. “We’ll see to that ourselves.” _

_ They say no more of it after that. But still, sleep does not find Waverly.  _

* * *

 

Lord Svane’s command shuttle sits in the docking bay for the next couple days while he breathes down the necks of the intelligence unit, terrorizing them into locating the Resistance base. 

As far as Waverly can tell, the man rarely returns to his quarters for sleep. As a youngling training on Ossus, she’d always been taught that those with a strong connection to the Force had other means of rejuvenation—namely meditation. But Lord Svane isn’t one for quiet and calm either, lest he’s using his considerable power to hunt foes. So, she steers clear as often as possible, monitoring his growing ire with each sleepless hour.

Her already tenuous role within the First Order feels somehow more unsteady with Svane loping around the Star Destroyer at all hours of the day. Every time she attempts to make an order, or to offer a keen suggestion, he turns back around and contradicts her. The frustration mounts quickly in his presence. 

Eventually, Waverly decides to take matters into her own hands.

She knows that Gus, like the others, has cut herself off from the Force. After Ossus was razed, Nicole—steadfast and foolish—seemed the only one unwilling to give up her connection. As a matter of fact, the collapse only seemed to anchor her more firmly, sharpening her purpose. 

Still, Gus and Waverly have more than just a passing bond in the Force. They’re kin, and close kin at that. With the proper meditation, there’s a possibility that Waverly can find her. Of course, doing so means accessing parts of herself that she hasn’t in a very long time. Parts that she’s tried very hard to ignore, or to forget entirely. 

But it’s for the good of the First Order. Which means that it’s for the good of Waverly herself.

(She does have something to prove now, after all.)

She isolates herself within her quarters late one night, ordering a guard to stand watch outside her door.  _ Absolutely no interruptions _ —that is her express demand, with the unspoken threat of death looming just overhead. 

Waverly paces the floor of her quarters for several minutes, just trying to calm herself. The room is spartan, with almost no personal effects. Though there are a select few that she has kept hidden in the footlocker on the far wall. With some hesitation, she keys in the security code and rifles through her robes and boots to the small box she keeps in the back.

Blowing a thin layer of dust off the top of the box, Waverly tentatively opens it up. She steels herself, but can’t help the despairing morass of feelings that bites at her insides at just the sight: a woven bracelet, with the name Earp stamped into the cording; a pressed and wilted purple bloom, from Ossus’ Gardens of T’alla; and finally, a small silver amulet, set with a rough black mineral. 

This last is the bauble that Waverly pulls from the box. She stares down at the amulet in her palm, feels the weight grow heavy in her hand before clutching it tightly enough that its roughened edges might draw blood. She hides the box back in the locker, but takes the amulet with her as she sits in the center of the room. 

She remembers when Gus gave it to her, on her tenth birthday. On Wynonna’s tenth birthday, she’d received a ring left behind by their mama.  _ I don’t have anything else of your mama’s to give to you, little one.  _ Gus had taken the amulet from her own neck then.  _ But I hope maybe you’ll find this just as precious? _

And Waverly had. Because she knew that amulet was one Gus had been given by her own mother, a woman whom she loved and missed so dearly.

Waverly allows herself to fall into the memory, into the feeling of love and belonging she’d felt that day. Less like someone’s ward and more like someone’s child. Less like Wynonna’s little sister and more like her own person, someone deserving of special gifts and attentions. Something in her seems to warm marginally, but she’s still tense, her body coiled so tightly she could snap at any moment.

With the threads of those bygone comforts still weighing on her, she reaches out. Picturing Gus’ smile, the glimmer in her eyes. The rough timbre of her laughter. Waverly pictures these things in her mind’s eye, and following close behind, like a phantom limb, she can remember Gus’ imprint in the Force. Her steady, guiding presence. 

Waverly’s brow furrows. She  _ remembers _ , but when reaching out, can she find that thread? Can she find  _ herself _ in the Force, as she once was?

The memories assault her in an unbidden barrage. Gus’ screams of anguish. Waverly’s name bloody in the mouth of her aunt and sister alike. Shorty’s body, lying before her, prone. The voice of Robert Svane, commanding her to just—

“No!” Waverly growls in frustration, the room’s few objects hitting the ground as she returns from memory. She hadn’t even realized she’d been holding them aloft. She looks down at her fist, uncurling it slowly to reveal the amulet and the now bloody indents from where it had been pressed into her palm.

“Ground yourself,” she says. “Control your breathing.” She coaches herself back into calm, though her heart-rate still skitters.  _ “Focus.” _

Waverly allows her eyes to fall closed once more.  _ Focus _ , she repeats, over and over, struggling to return to that calm, comforting center. Thoughts of Gus had not sustained it, but maybe…

She reaches for new memories, for a steadier visage. A dimpled grin and rich brown eyes. A mellifluous laugh or a breath in her ear. Unbeknownst to herself, Waverly’s own mouth hitches into a small smile.

_ “Nicole…” _ she allows herself to say her name. 

And then she hears it: the shifting of linens. A wave lapping against the shore. All carried on a cool, salty breeze.

Waverly open her eyes to find herself sitting on the edge of a small cot. The room is stiflingly tiny—something like a storehouse piled high with sacks of provisions and different tools. Not a room meant to house people. But here, amongst the stores, there’s a small cot.

This is where Nicole sleeps now. Waverly’s eyes widen as she takes in her sleeping form: arms thrown over her head, sheets tossed messily over her body. Waverly’s gaze lands first on the pale expanse of a leg, stuck out from under the sheet. Then, trailing upwards, to long eyelashes and parted lips.

The sight of it stirs something in Waverly, something she’d long thought abandoned. Her stomach tightens, chest constricting. Her hand drifts out, almost unconsciously, and Waverly has to stop herself from resting it on a covered hip. Her heart hammers when she realizes what she’s doing.

(And just like that, what she’d thought to be a thread—tenuous at best—proves itself to be something stronger. More resilient.)

Waverly licks her lips, mouth dry. She won’t touch her, but she doesn’t stop herself from whispering,  _ “Nicole…” _

Almost instantly, Nicole’s brow furrows and she turns her head away. “Not now,” she mutters.

Then Waverly’s opening her eyes for real, back in her own quarters. The amulet lies forgotten on the floor beside her.

* * *

 

_ Wynonna and Waverly both know the weight that their family name carries. They know the wrongs of their forefathers. It’s a burden that they share, as one. _

_ So, it makes little sense to Waverly that the Masters are so hard on her while they stand by and allow Wynonna her recklessness. That Wynonna, alone, is granted the extra attentions of their Uncle Curtis while Waverly is relegated to Shorty’s tutelage.  _

_ A lesser Jedi, she knows. Though she won’t dare say it aloud. That is what Shorty is. And she will be a lesser Jedi, too. Because while Wynonna’s gifts are cultivated, Waverly’s are snuffed. _

_ Even as a nine-year-old she’s well aware of this fact. Well aware of her own potential.  _

_ Even as a nine-year-old, she lies awake at night racking her brain, trying desperately to understand what she did to deserve such caution. It’s a bitter reality to accept, but at least she’s not alone in it anymore. Not since Nedley brought them the Dathomiri girl, Nicole.  _

_ Waverly had never even heard of the planet Dathomir before Nicole came to train with them. She still doesn’t know much about it, other than the fact that the Dark One has taken control of it. And that Nicole’s family—her sisters—had been forced into discipleship.  _

_ Nicole had been among a group of girls who were being groomed as handmaidens when Master Nedley and a few other members of the council infiltrated the camp. Most escaped. But Nicole, as the youngest of the group at just ten-years-old and abandoned by her parents, was left to fend for herself. _

_ The Nightsisters on Dathomir towed the line of the Dark side, Nedley had explained. Some of their practices were unorthodox, or even violent. But Nicole was just a girl, and having lost his own daughter just a few years before, Nedley had taken to her almost immediately. _

_ She’d had ten years of flirting with the Dark side. But Nicole was young, could be reformed. As long as the proper caution and discipline were exerted. As long as she was granted the proper limitations.  _

_ Waverly doesn’t know much about the ways of the Nightsisters or of their dark magick. But she knows what it’s like to be uprooted, to be taken from the only life you’ve ever known and thrust into one of strict discipline. She knows what it’s like to be handled with care, to be treated as other.  _

_ Sharing in that, together—it forges a bond between Waverly and Nicole that not even she can share with Wynonna. One that the Masters can never understand. _

_ One that the Masters come to fear. _

* * *

 

Like the atoms binding within a cloud of dust and gas, the threads that bind Waverly to the ones she once called family turn molecular. Within her mind’s eyes, a whisper and a breeze—something all Nicole—grounds her. She reaches out— _ far— _ and she can feel the quiet pulsation of stars forming around her. Nicole, steady and blindingly bright as ever. Wynonna, a darting flutter somewhere in the Western Reaches.

And then, the quiet blip that she’s been looking for. It’s faint, reticent, but so distinctly  _ Gus. _ Secreted away in a remote sector of the Outer Rim. 

She can’t quite get a lock on a planet, in the same way that she couldn’t for Nicole (though she’s waiting for Nicole to come to her). But she gleans enough to know that First Order intelligence have been looking in entirely the wrong sector. 

Waverly smiles with self-satisfaction as she strides confidently onto the bridge where Lord Svane is frustratedly barking orders. He turns a scowl on her when she interrupts his rant, wiping the smile off her face completely. She deserves a greater showing of respect than that, but she’s willing to overlook it in light of recent developments. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Lord Svane, but I have news.”

“ _ Good _ news, I hope.” There is a hint of warning in his voice.

Feeling bold, she counters, “Lord  _ Bulshar _ will surely be pleased.” Then striding over to the star maps that the intelligence officers are poring over, she chuckles. “All wrong,” she mutters. “You’re looking in the wrong place.” She zooms in on the sector where she felt Gus’ presence, circling it with her finger.

“If I could give you exact coordinates, I would,” she says, turning to the officer nearest her. “But you’re supposed to be the best and the brightest, aren’t you? If you can’t help me find a planet in this  _ tiny _ sector, then I believe reassignments may be in order.” The officer stares up at her, swallowing visibly. “Or worse.”

“Yes, Lord Vosh,” he nods eagerly, the fear plain in him.

“And how did you get this information?”

Waverly turns to Lord Svane, tamping down a frown at his suspicious tone. “Meditation.”

“ _ Meditation _ ,” he scoffs. “A Jedi trick, more like.”

Waverly squares her jaw. “I have the training, yes. Why shouldn’t I use it against them?”

Svane’s eyes darken somewhat. He places a hand on his apprentice’s shoulder and steers her away from the deck. “The Light side of the Force, and all of its  _ trappings… _ ” he begins distastefully, shaking his head. “It’s a taint, Vosh. And you and I,” he places both hands on her shoulders now, turning her to face him. “We’re  _ pure _ .” His grip tightens enough that she expects to find bruises later. “Don’t jeopardize that. Not for anyone.”

Waverly’s eyes narrow when Svane walks away, leaving her to solve matters herself. (As usual.)

* * *

 

_ There’s a good reason why the Masters send Waverly and Wynonna to Dathomir and not Nicole. _

_ They’re full knights now, having passed their trials with flying colors many months earlier. And while Waverly and Nicole are still monitored heavily, the council trusts them enough that they’re allowed to fly off into the uncharted.  _

_ For the most part, anyway. _

_ Nicole isn’t even allowed to  _ know _ that Waverly and Wynonna are on this mission—a secret that does not sit well with the younger knight. But she understands why. While Nicole’s connection to her sisters was severed many years ago, her connection to the planet’s magicks, to a beast she refers to only as “The Sleeper” still nests within her. _

_ The mission is a simple one. While Bulshar himself went into hiding years ago, his highest ranking officers still terrorize the far corners of the galaxy. And a few of them are said to have retreated to one of the abandoned outposts on Dathomir, in an attempt to resurrect old allegiances. Waverly and Wynonna’s job is only to scout, to gather information. _

_ Yes, it’s a simple mission. Until the sisters are ambushed in the forests outside of the First Order camp.  _

_ The scout troopers come zooming in on their jumpspeeders, blasters exploding all around Waverly and Wynonna. They’re able to beat the blaster fire back with their lightsabers, but if they want to escape, they’ll have to knock off some of the scouts, commandeer a couple bikes for themselves, and zip off into the thickets. _

_ “There’s too many. We’ve got to split them up,” Wynonna shouts as she hops onto a newly abandoned bike. _

_ “You take left, I’ll take right,” Waverly agrees, revving her own speeder. “Meet back at rendezvous?” _

_ “You know it, Baby Girl,” Wynonna grins, comically dodging a blaster bolt at the last second. Though she won’t admit to it in the moment, she’s loving this—the action, the danger. It’s what Wynonna lives for.  _

_ And maybe there’s a part of Waverly that enjoys it, too. She can’t deny the thrill that runs through her as she weaves between trees, the bike humming beneath her. Each time one of the scout troopers crashes or drops off behind her, the satisfaction worms its way through her focused mind.  _

_ She’s almost certain that she’s lost them all when a stray volley of blaster bolts fires into one of the bike’s repulsorlifts with suspicious precision. The thrust jams up almost immediately, taking a nose-dive towards the ground. Waverly goes tumbling in the opposite direction of the bike, clinging to the Force to protect her from the brunt of the impact. Though the force of it still rattles through her, quick and sharp, eliciting a cry of pain.  _

_ She rolls to a stop several meters from the jumpspeeder, coming to rest against a massive tree trunk. Her head spins, fog crowding in around the edges of her vision. She allows her eyes to drift open and closed, only really coming back fully to awareness when she hears someone walking into the grove. _

_ Waverly springs to attention, jumping up shakily from the ground with her lightsaber held tightly. But before she can extend the blade, the hilt flies from her hand— _

_ —and into the waiting palm of a dark-robed figure. His head is bent, obscured by a large hood. But even beneath, she can see him smile as he studies her lightsaber. _

_ “Interesting craftsmanship,” the man notes, a hint of amusement present in his voice. “A bit… rudimentary for my taste.” He lifts his head then, drawing back the hood. A shock of dark hair rises from his pale head, cut with a streak of white that extends all the way down through his beard. “But then again—what do I know?” _

_ Waverly sees a lightsaber of his own making, hanging from his belt. She tries to school her alarm. “Who are you?” _

_ “You don’t remember me?” he asks, smiling. Then, shrugging, he comes to circle around her. “Well, I suppose it was a long, long time ago. And you were…” he looks her up and down appraisingly, much to Waverly’s discomfort. “Very small then.” _

_ Waverly takes a careful step back with each he takes forward. “You talk as if you know me.” _

_ “Waverly…  _ Earp _ ,” he says slowly, clicking his teeth over her surname. Then he smirks. “They’ve still got you going by that name, don’t they?” _

_ “ _ That  _ name?” she asks, hesitant. She does not know for certain where this man’s allegiances lie, only that they do not align with those of the New Jedi Order. Otherwise, she would have met him before now.  _

_ “A family-given name,” he explains, amused. “But blood-given? Not quite.” _

_ Waverly scowls, circling the grove right along with him. Slowly. “If you want something from me, you should stop talking in riddles.” _

_ “Want something from you?” The man stops, that infuriating smirk still fixed firmly on his face. He shakes his head. “I want for nothing, Waverly. But destiny… it demands so much.” _

_ “Who are you?” she tries instead. _

_ The man tosses her lightsaber back to her suddenly, though his still remains at his waist. “A friend,” he answers. Then, heading off her frustrated retort, “Robert Svane, if you’d like.” _

_ Unsure of what else to do, she extends the blade on her lightsaber, feeling steadier with it humming in her grip. _

_ Robert Svane chuckles, his grin widening. “When you need answers, Waverly  _ Earp _ —and I know you will, someday soon—I will be waiting for you. In the meantime,” he stares off over her shoulder. In the distance, the rumble of a jumpspeeder approaches, “perhaps you should start questioning more.” _

_ By the time Wynonna arrives, Robert Svane is gone. And Waverly is left wondering. _

* * *

 

“Crait,” Svane announces slowly, allowing the name to marinate in his mouth. He steps back from the holo-map magnified before him with a predatory smile. “A clever choice,” he mutters.

“We’ll set course at once, Lord Svane.” General Lucado tells him, standing at attention. She’s more careful now, their last unpleasant interaction still fresh in her mind. 

“That goes without saying.” He minimizes the map suddenly, turning to Waverly and Lucado both. “I must alert Lord Bulshar of our findings.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Waverly tells him, stepping forward. But Svane places a hand on her shoulder. “I think it’s best if I do this alone. I was the one tasked with finding our coordinates.”

_ But you were not the one who found them, _ Waverly thinks, staring at him with a measured gaze. She promptly bites her tongue. “And what would you have me do?” she asks, voice even.

Svane steps forward, lowering his voice. His eye-teeth show through his smile. “Prepare yourself, of course. A family reunion is in order.” He tilts his head then, eyes dark. “The excitement is… a lot to take in.”

“Excitement,” Waverly repeats.

Svane nods, clapping her shoulder. “Be ready, young one. Let them see exactly what my apprentice can do.”


	5. V - Nicole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Force provides Nicole with a confusing vision, one that only Waverly can understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued reading, all! I am loving writing this story, though that has its side effects. I.e. Pulling out my sewing machine to rework my personal robes...

Nicole wakes suddenly, expecting another form to be standing in her small hut. Though she won’t admit it, she does feel some twinge of disappointment when she looks to find it empty, save for the many sacks and tools piled high throughout. 

She sits up suddenly, debating whether or not she ought to go back to sleep. But there’s something in the air tonight, something tugging none too gently at her consciousness.

This, too, could be Waverly. She suspects that it might be. And for some odd reason, that doesn’t quite alarm her the way that it should.

Nicole pulls on a light vest and some boots before padding quietly out of the hut. The night is dark, and vacuously silent. She spots a single low-burning fire glowing from the distant hut of a caretaker. But otherwise, only the glittering stars illuminate her path.

It’s not the light that she follows tonight, however. No, instead, it’s a muffled whisper. One that seems to call both within and without her at the same time. 

The timbre of this whisper is deeper than Waverly’s mellifluous pitch. Layered and insistent, but somehow ethereally calm. She catches it on a light breeze once, and then a second time as she treks down the hillside. It weaves in and out of the waves that lap the shore below, humming gently. A benign siren.

Master Nedley had told her there were dark things beneath the surface of Ahch-To, not so unlike her home planet of Dathomir. There had to be, to balance out the Force pull that had drawn early Jedi to construct a temple here in the first place. Still, Nicole doesn’t feel that the voice that calls to her is dark, necessarily. The closer she gets, the more clearly she understands that it  _ could _ be. But it also cannot harm her if she doesn’t let it.

As she draws nearer, the pull is so strong, the voice so clear that she can practically close her eyes and allow it to guide her. She drops from a precipice, leaping nimbly from craggy stone to craggy stone, the roar of the sea a distant concern below her. 

After several minutes, she touches down on a rough stone floor, her own footfalls echoing within the cavern. The Force is stronger here—heavier than she’d been expecting—but not quite oppressive. Rather, it feels entreating, like a locked door behind which she might find vast riches. 

(Or something far less pleasant. But Nicole wipes that worry from her mind.)

She opens her eyes to find a large pit stretched out before her. Its edges are lined with thick vines and roots, almost pitch in color. Curious, she glances once over her shoulder before kneeling down to peer over the edge.

It’s difficult to see below, the cavern almost completely blanketed in thick shadows. But she thinks she can make out the subtle undulation of water. If only she could just get a little closer…

Nicole is falling almost before she realizes what has happened. Something—an incorporeal something—has pulled her forward, down into the waters below. Her chest seizes in sudden panic, expecting this unknown impetus to pull her down, deep into the depths. For the lavender-turned-hazel eyes of The Sleeper to stare back at her.

But that’s not what this is. Not tonight. 

She kicks and claws, swimming back up to the top. The water is murky and warm, the air even warmer as she comes up to take a relieved gulp. She sputters and swims for land, pushing herself to her feet. 

When Nicole stands, she’s surprised to find her own reflection—waterlogged and startled—staring back at her from a glass-like surface. 

Around her, the cavern goes eerily silent. Not even the echo of the water or her own gasps ring out in the space. Instead, the voice calls to her, clear as day now, and near as if it were only just whispering in her own ear. 

_ “Closer.” _

Nicole knows, instinctively, that the Force is calling her  _ forward _ , towards her own reflection. 

She shivers slightly when she presses her fingers to the glass aperture, her reflection reacting in kind.

“What do you need me to see?” she asks, voice quiet. Then, pressing her palm flat against the surface, she demands, “Show me.”

It’s almost like she’s falling forward again, but she manages to remain upright. Her body jerks, feet rooted to the ground, as the cavern blurs instantaneously into an empty, white corridor. It seems to stretch endlessly in both directions. 

As do the reflections of Nicole’s own body, in front of and behind her. Her eyes widen. She raises her hand in shock, and a seemingly infinite number of hands raise in turn. She inhales sharply and snaps her fingers, the subsequent sound echoing down the line for miles.

Nicole can hear herself—in every iteration—breathing deeply. “Show me,” she whispers again, the murmur rising, and jerks forward once more, the line blurring and bending until she comes to a stop before another glass aperture. 

This time, the reflection is obscured by a cloud of smoke. But she can see, plain as day on the other side, a figure sheathed in shadow, moving forward. 

Nicole knows what she’s expecting—that as the figure draws nearer, the pall will lift, and hazel eyes will stare back at her once more. That it will be Waverly standing on the other side this time. 

So, she’s surprised when the smoke clears and the face looking back is, once again, her own. But not as it had been in the other reflections. Gone now is her messy red hair and rosy cheeks. Gone are her light brown robes and her simple lightsaber. Gone is Nicole, the erstwhile Jedi Knight.

In her place stands Nicole the Nightsister.

Her head is shaved, and tattooed with a tribalistic pattern of dark navy lines and whorls, as was the tradition of her coven. Her eyes are darker somehow, the pupils blown wide. 

Nicole—the real Nicole—stumbles back a half step. She’s aware of what she could have been, if Nedley had not saved her. She knows the path she could have walked. 

What she did not know is how cold that version of herself would appear. How very unlike the woman she has worked so hard to become. 

The Nightsister takes a step closer to the glass, no longer mimicking her reflection. She presses her palms, covered in the crimson, linen wraps that run the length of her forearms, flat against the glass. With some difficulty, she manages to smile—a grief-filled wisp of a thing. 

“It’s cold in here, Nicole,” she says quietly, her voice an echo that drowns out all else. 

“Cold in where?”

The Nightsister presses her left temple to the glass and closes her eyes, an emphatic frown overtaking her smile. “There are dark corners of your heart. The Sleeper knows.” She scratches her fingernails down the glass, meeting Nicole’s eyes. “I don’t want to stay here anymore.”

“We’re exactly where we belong, you and I.” Even as the words leave her mouth, she can feel the uncertainty in them. “Some things deserve to remain behind glass.”

The Nightsister is silent for a moment, considering this. Until she opens her mouth and unleashes an unnatural howl. Nicole covers her ears, stumbling backwards as if physically repelled.

Back, into the cavern’s waters. Back, away from the dark. 

* * *

 

The night is warm, the dawn still hours out of reach by the time Nicole makes it back to her small hut. Her clothes have mostly dried, but still cling heavily to her skin in the damp. She absentmindedly lights a small fire once inside, and sits down on a crate across the room, gazing into the embers. 

It isn’t so much meditation as it is contemplation. She’s not sure that she could focus her mind even if she wanted to. The image of the could-be Nightsister takes precedence in her mind. She can hear her anguished howl, the scratch of her nails upon the glass. Her senses light upon the memory, a rush of emotion trailing in their wake. 

It’s odd that her loneliness is the thing that seems to grab hold of her the most firmly. But there it is, clawed and hungry.

On instinct, she calls quietly into the night, “Waverly.” Nicole waits only a moment for a response before calling out again. “Are you there?”

“I’m here,” Waverly says, a note of curiosity in her voice. And suddenly she stands across from Nicole, as if she’d been there all along. 

Nicole’s brow furrows slightly. She looks up. “Do you understand how any of this works?”

Waverly looks around the hut before focusing on Nicole’s damp clothes. She takes a tentative seat on a crate opposite her. “I’m not sure. At first, I thought it was only in dreams.” She settles, placing her hands on her thighs. “But here I am. And we’re both awake, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Nicole replies.

Waverly pauses. “Your clothes are all wet.”

The corner of Nicole’s mouth hitches into a smile. “I went for a swim.”

“At this hour?”

Well,” Nicole shrugs diffidently. “Maybe I fell in.”

“Maybe,” Waverly agrees. The silence settles between them for a moment, comfortably familiar, with only the crackling of the fire to break it. 

Then, Nicole dares to confess, “I saw something that I probably was not meant to.”

She tells Waverly about her fall into the dark cavern, and the strange vision it provided her with. A fool idea, considering how Waverly or her Master might deign to use this conflict to their own ends. But somehow, it feels as easy as breathing, even now, to confide in Waverly her troubles. 

The other woman is a patient listener, carefully considering the story that Nicole gives her. Once she is finished, the weight of the sleepless night weighing on her, Waverly sits back and asks, “Do you ever think about her?”

“Who?” 

“That other version of yourself. The person that you might have become.”

“No,” Nicole reflexively says.

“No?”

“Well… sometimes. But more so… thinking of—”  _ What I’ve gained _ , is what she means to say, but she has to stop herself. Because so much of what she  _ did _ gain, she has lost. (One such thing is presently sitting right in front of her.) 

“Thinking of what?”

“Do you suppose I ever could have been happy? In that life? That world?” Nicole is ashamed of the trace of desperation that creeps into her voice. A need for affirmation. 

Waverly leans forward, moving just a bit closer. “It doesn’t matter if I think you could have been happy.” She fixes an intense gaze on Nicole. “And why should it? Your happiness is not something that anybody can decide for you. You shouldn’t  _ give  _ anyone that power.”

Nicole stares down at her feet. “I couldn’t have been happy,” she says, though her uncertainty is obvious, “belonging to someone else like that.”

“And you belong to no one now,” Waverly says, quietly. Nicole isn’t sure if it’s a question or a statement. She lifts her gaze, their eyes meeting again. The fire has died down, but the embers still pop.

“I suppose not.”

“How does it feel?” There’s something there. A trace of bitterness, or regret. Or anger. Nicole can’t decide.

“Sometimes,” Nicole begins, biting her lip, “I feel… adrift.”

Waverly looks down. “Adrift,” she repeats, ruminating over the word. After a moment of protracted silence, she lifts her hand, reaching into the space between them.

Nicole feels the air around them thrum, feels it stirring inside of her. In the ocher glow of a dying fire, she reaches out her own hand. Tentative, as if reaching for a wild thing.

Their fingers touch. Just a light brush, but the warmth, the sense of  _ clarity _ that suffuses Nicole is enough to make her want to sink into it.

Their eyes meet, and she’s certain, in that moment, that what Waverly feels is the same.

She recoils only when Nedley’s startled,  _ furious _ voice enters the hut. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Master,” Nicole shoots up out of her seat, heart pounding. Her gaze darts shamefully between where he stands and the place where Waverly had been sitting just a second before. “Did you…” She doesn’t know how to ask, but instinctively, can tell. Nedley’s stern face lets her know exactly what he’s witnessed. 

“Nicole,” he says, struggling to maintain an even tone. “I will ask you this only once. And I need you to be honest with me. Did you invite her here?” 

Her eyes give it away before her words can. Nedley’s jaw is already locked when she explains, “I didn’t think… that if I called to her she’d actually—”

“You’re a damn fool, Nicole Haught,” Nedley says, voice aggrieved.

“We were just speaking—”

“Just speaking?” Nedley scoffs. “You used that same line on me a dozen times or more when you were a padawan. As did she.” He scowls. “Shorty would attest to that. If he were alive to do so.”

Nedley stalks forward then, his face stormier than Nicole has seen it in years. “I’m sure you weren’t thinking about that, were you? What she and Darth Svane did to him? What they did to Curtis—” the grief pours from him. “Her own uncle, Nicole.”

“I know.”

“Then why?” he asks, grabbing her forearm. He’s close now. Close enough that Nicole can see the fear in his eyes. “Then why would you allow yourself to fall for her tricks  _ again _ ?”

“It’s not a trick,” she insists, unexpectedly defensive. “There’s no trick if there’s no trust.”

“Are you sure about that?” he asks.

Nicole nods. “Certain.”

After a wary moment, Nedley steps back, his face going stony again. “Good. Because we have a problem.”

Nicole’s brow furrows. “What is it?”

The old Jedi is silent for a long moment. “Gus reached out to me tonight, in the Force. That is, after my comlink failed her.” 

After everything, Gus and Nedley had reached an agreement: they would leave each other to their own paths. Nedley, to his life of solitude. And Gus, to her Resistance. If she was reaching out to him  _ now… _

“Waverly’s found her, Nicole.”

“Found her?” Nicole steps forward.

“There’s a connection between them, even now. It’s weak but… enough for Tal Vosh to exploit, apparently.”

Nicole considers this, her mind moving at a breakneck pace. “What does this mean?”

“It means we’re leaving,” Nedley announces, picking her empty rucksack off the ground and tossing it unceremoniously at her. She only just manages to catch it, albeit clumsily. “The Resistance needs all the help that it can get.”

He goes about throwing water on the low-burning embers. With dawn upon them, the light of the morning starting to creep in, the fire is hardly necessary anyway. 

“We’re going to, as well, for that matter.” He looks up at her, frowning. “My X-wing has been under water for more than a year and a half now. There’s no way that old junker is going to haul our asses all the way to Crait.”

Nicole runs a hand through her hair, groaning inwardly. There  _ is _ a simply solution to this problem. But she’s not sure that Nedley is going to like it.

“Don’t you worry about that,” she assures him. “I’m pretty sure I can secure us a ride.”

* * *

 

_ As Nicole creeps slowly through the grass, limping and sore, she knows that she should be resting. Master Nedley will likely castigate her for pushing herself out of bed so soon after the encounter but, she can’t help herself.  _

_ Her troubles run deep tonight, the encounter with the Zabrak headhunter replaying in her mind every time she closes her eyes. She knows there will be no sleep until she seeks counsel.  _

_ The hour is late, the tents of her fellow padawans silent, the fires glowing a soft orange from their low burning. She sneaks past the two padawans on sentry duty for the night, making a beeline for Nedley’s tent. However, as she approaches covertly from behind, skulking through the bushes, the sight of four shadows flickering in the candlelight stops her in her tracks. _

_ Gus’ voice carries through the canvas. “... There will be more days like today. Even darker encounters.” _

_ “And Waverly will carry herself exactly as she did earlier,” Shorty insists, clearly aggravated. “You forget— _ she _ wasn’t the one who lost control.” _

_ “I take responsibility for Nicole’s actions,” Nedley cuts in. “I expect better from her.”  _

_ “That’s a dangerous bond those two girls have,” Gus warns. Shame and indignity pass through Nicole in rapid succession. “A reformed Nightsister and Bulshar’s Chosen One.” _

_ “Gus.” The uncharacteristic sternness of Curtis’ tone might alarm Nicole more, if not for her confusion. Bulshar’s Chosen One? “That’s your niece you’re talking about.” Nicole’s brow furrows. _

_ “She’s not wrong though, is she?” Nedley sighs. “We can still steer the prophecy right. But Bulshar knows Waverly’s out there now: a child born of the Force. It’s going to absolutely tickle him if he ever learns she’s taken up with one of his clan.”  _

_ Confusion turns to a sense of welling panic, and Nicole stumbles back from the tent, the bushes rustling. Immediately, quiet falls over the Masters. _

_ Unsure of what else she should do, Nicole tries to run. But she’s not thinking straight, images of the day now colliding with this newfound realization. This newfound shame. She doesn’t watch where she’s going, already a little awkward on her feet from injury, and trips over a root. When she crashes to the ground, she’s unable to quell the cry of pain that erupts from her. _

_ Nedley bursts from the tent, catching up to the padawan before she can even get back on her feet. He hauls her up by her tunic, face crumpling in sympathy and dismay when he sees who it is. _

_ “Nicole…” _

_ “I’m sorry,” she stammers. “I just wanted to talk to you—I didn’t mean—” She hates that her lip is quivering when Gus emerges behind Nedley. There’s a look of genuine pity on her face when she looks down at the girl, placing her hand on Nedley’s shoulder. _

_ “Randy,” she says gently, “bring her inside.” _

_ He looks over his shoulder, searching her gaze. “Are you sure?” _

_ Gus looks down at Nicole again, reclaiming her stern mien. “I imagine she knows enough now to wonder. Better to tell one of them the truth.” _

_ After a moment, Nedley sighs. “All right.” Then, helping Nicole along with more gentleness. “Easy now, kid. We’ve gotta talk.” _

* * *

 

Wynonna stands at the top of the boarding ramp, staring at Master Nedley. His face is fairly unreadable, if not a little displeased. Wynonna, on the other hand, wears a genuine smirk. 

“I bet you weren’t expecting to see your favorite padawan again so soon,” she announces by way of greeting, the joke obviously somewhat strained. 

“Favorite?” Nedley half-snorts before passing Nicole a wry look. “I guess you’ve jumped a couple spots in my book,” then, striding business-like up the boarding room. “Just don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Before he can pass, Wynonna places a hand on his shoulder. More seriously, she tells him. “Hey. It’s good to see you, old man.”

Nedley nods, not quite smiling. “Thanks for coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she tells him. There’s something in her voice then, hard as steel. A smirk that fails to meet her eyes. She squeezes his shoulder once before allowing him to pass, clapping Nicole on the back when she follows. 

When they enter  _ Peacemaker _ ’s bridge, Doc is there waiting for them, thumbs hooked into his pockets. He tips his hat at Nicole, nodding at Nedley in kind.

Wynonna turns to them, all determination. “Well. How about we get this show on the road?”

Nedley is already clipping himself into one of the cockpit’s passenger seats. “I sincerely hope your piloting skills have improved since I last saw you.”

Wynonna scoffs, plopping down into the pilot’s seat. As she begins flipping switches, engaging systems, she proudly tells him, “I’ve made the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs, you know.”

“A parsec is a measure of distance, not time.  _ You know,”  _ Nedley counters smoothly.

“Just buckle up.” Nicole tells him, sitting opposite the man. “It might be a bumpy ride.”

An understatement, if there ever was one.


End file.
